Inferno
by jerzeegurl
Summary: Takes place during the morning of "Georgia Peaches". A distraught Angela turns to a friend after Gillian interrupts her plans with Tommy.


August was notoriously one of the hottest months of the year, yet this year seemed worse than others. The heat in the kitchen was stifling and it was barely nine o'clock in the morning. Even with the windows open the ocean breeze was of no use, the winds pushing around only hot air.

She was seething, and drew a deep breath to calm herself while she ran a dishcloth under the faucet. She rang out the excess water, surprised at the relief brought by that small task in and of itself, and drew the rag to the nape of her bare neck.

The weight of her head was so much lighter now, and that surprised her as well. She thought she would have gotten used to how it felt after so many months. She'd admired the style on so many others and didn't regret for even a single instant the moment those first few ringlets fell to the floor; chains forever binding her to a past she'd rather not remember. It was wonderfully liberating, and though she knew there'd be hell to pay for it, she smiled all the way home that afternoon.

She sighed aloud and glanced ruefully over at the bubbling pot on her stove top. She always started her sauce early in the day, the way her aunt had taught her, and this Sunday was no different. Heat or no heat, they would have a nice supper; ravioli, insalata, fresh bread, as well as some sausages that Jimmy had come home with a few days earlier—a quality meat he'd acquired from a friend in Philadelphia. _Who could he possibly know there? _Still, she dared not ask. The more she knew about her husband's affairs, the more she wished she knew nothing at all.

She strove to carry on the family tradition, even if it were just she and Tommy dining that night. Only now her party of two had become a party of one, no thanks to Gillian.

Her mother-in-law didn't even have the common courtesy to knock anymore, and barged in the side door just as she was showing Tommy how to roll out the dough for the pasta. His palette had grown persnickety as of late, due in part she surmised, to the fact that his father was always giving him sweets in an effort to compensate for his long absences. She resolved she'd have a better chance of getting the child to actually eat if he helped prepare the meal. She'd always loved helping her aunt, hearing stories of the Old Country and her parents' village outside of Tuscany…stories she hoped to share with her son. That would have to wait for another Sunday, Gillian having easily persuaded him to join her on the Midway for amusements, hot dogs, and—if he were a _good boy_—ice cream.

She knew she couldn't compete with her, nor did she have the patience to try anymore. While his grandmother might rejoice in making the child choose between the two of them, she wasn't about to put that burden on his tiny shoulders. So, despite her better judgment, she gave her son a kiss on his forehead and watched with her heart in her throat as he left with her rival.

What she didn't know at the time, what none of them could have possibly known, was that she'd never see him again.

She sighed again in silent frustration, stirred her sauce, covered the pot, and turned off the stove. With a grimace she found herself overlooking the now ruined dough.

Suddenly, frighteningly, the walls were closing in her on. It came without warning and she couldn't stand it-she had to get out of the house. Jimmy had the car (_again_), effectively stranding her and she never felt more trapped before in her entire life. With shaking hands, she found herself reaching for the telephone, praying he would answer, not sure exactly what to say if he did.

A clicking sound, followed by a gruff, "Hello?" and her heart began to flutter nervously.

On the one hand, he was one of few people she knew she could count on. On the other, the fact that he was home meant that he wasn't with her husband and a wave of nausea crashed over her. Jimmy was slipping further and further away—she barely recognized him anymore—yet, in spite of it all, she still worried about him. She tried to fight it but she just couldn't help herself. His safety and well being now in question only reinforced her urge to leave, she didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Richard?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I…I don't mean to bother you," she continued in a small voice, "but I need to pick up a few items in town."

It was a lie, the only thing she needed was company, but she'd think of something along the way.

"I'll be. Right over."


End file.
